The Tattooed Stranger
by DonJuan'73
Summary: "Are you sick of it all?" She knew he wasn't talking about being a coat-check girl. What infuriated her most was that he was right. She hated the conformity, the emptiness of life here. She would never be able to talk to someone here about how she starved, stole and fought her way out of Russian occupied Berlin as a ten-year-old. She was alone in this world.
1. New York, 1962

**1962**

Everything was still that October afternoon, almost like the world itself was watching and decided to accommodate the millions of Americans sitting in their homes-quietly waiting for something that was utterly out of their grasp.  
It was all in _their_ hands. The governments who were at odds with each other.  
The peach colored afternoon shone with fading beauty as her shadow danced on the cracked pavement that was covered in chalky scrawls and squares for games.  
The concrete city she knew and for so long despised, never looked so beautiful that day. The grey was doused in the warm orange light and some windows shone back the sun with blinding magnified brilliance.  
As she reached the block that she lived on, she looked back with sentimental eyes, the kind of look a man on death row might have as he leaves his prison cell for the last time.  
With the crinkling bag of groceries on one hip, she walked up the steps to the building in which she lived. After a quick struggle with keys and bags, she was up the dark hallway and the narrow stairs that led up to her one bedroom apartment on the third floor. A brief flicker of thought made her think about all of the saving, scrimping and labor of the past eight years. She had been three months away from getting the money for a deposit on a house. A proper house in a neighborhood of lawns and fences. It was something that would've made her balk in distaste less than ten years ago. Before she became a mother.

She knocked on her door in the dark hall and in less than a second her son eagerly opened it, obviously waiting for her return. She handed him the groceries, the lactic acid had reduced her arms to limp extremities.  
"Any more news on the radio?" She took off her coat and sat in the threadbare chair that creaked under her slight frame.  
"Nope."

She clenched and unclenched her hard red hands that had suffered from years of abuse and hard labor. The last eight years had passed quickly in a whirl of hard work. And now it seemed that the bombs were going to fall on them. Schools, work places and almost everyone had closed up shop. No one knew how long they might have left-war was a threat that seemed both fictional and horrifyingly real. She had to spend these moments with Pietro. Her child. Her miracle.

Her family that had been killed, the faces that had almost been completely lost in the mists of her mind, now existed on Pietro's face. Everyday, a little look would bring back a forgotten image of a sister or brother, or when she'd comb his hair, she'd see it shine a blackish blue for a second, like her mother. Every time he smiled she saw her father, the gypsy magician who performed tricks that suspended disbelief, her son's namesake.

He sat beside her now on a little wooden stool, watching the radio intently as if it was a television.  
As if hearing her thoughts, Pietro looked up at her with dark eyes that seemed to bore into her soul. They were his only feature that did not belong to her, her family or even his father. "Mom?"  
"Yes?" She looked down, telling herself they might only have days before life as they know it end.  
His dark eyes were unblinking. "Bombs are made of metal."  
"Yes they are." She knew where he was going with this already. She pressed her lips together tightly.  
"Then, would Rex be able to stop them?"

She looked down at him, feeling the guilt swirl through her entire body. Rex. Rex had been created as a character, a fable when the bullying first began. She had taken the parts of Erik that could be used to teach Pietro about injustice, individuality, uniqueness. She left out the manipulative, conniving, deceiving person who was incapable of love. The man that Pietro knew as father was a vague description of a man "that I knew once".

"I don't know..." She looked out the window, watching the sun sink gradually in the sky. "Bombs move pretty fast. And the distance. That would matter." She always felt uncomfortable talking about it, she remembered locking metal objects away when he was a toddler, the thought that he might inherit the inhuman ability had always played on her mind, but her child was normal. She was relieved. The last thing he needed was to be any more _different._

The radio was playing some slow jazz on the station she usually listened to. After a minute of that, his little voice piped up again. "I wonder what he's doing."  
"I'm sure he's halfway across the world, sitting tight like us. Although I'm sure he'd make a great bunker."  
"No..." Again, those eyes watched her levelly as he continued, "_My Dad_."  
"I thought you said that you didn't want to know..."

She remembered that day. A few years ago the kids at school must've had heard their parents gossiping about her husband or rather, lack of one. It was a stigma she bore with no complaint but she remembered how the rage that was usually dormant surged when she held her hurt and confused son. They had taunted him and he had hit out of anger. The kid had lost a tooth apparently. She wasn't surprised.  
She remembered sitting that day in the elementary school office. She remembered the rubber plants and the smell of the vice-principal's hair oil and how his glasses glinted in the light when he coolly said, "I didn't realize your son's name was actually Pietro, Mrs..."  
She paused for a second. She had gone by many names throughout her life. The surname had nothing to do with her family. She was a "displaced" child when she came to America.  
"Maximoff."  
It came out with difficulty, the mild stutter that she suffered as a child when she was forced to speak German. The punishment for such an impediment was to sing the national anthem until she stuttered no more.

"Hm." The Vice-Principal had a military air as he took out the file. With a few violent flicks, a birth certificate was procured. She knew that had no father had been labelled on it. Her son was illegitimate and she was an affront to the concept of family. She looked at him with dark steely blue eyes, daring him to say anything. She continued. "Peter is what everyone calls him. He likes it better."  
He returned a cold smile. "Nothing wrong with wanting to fit in. Plenty of people change their names to look better on job applications."  
The way he said it made her want to reach across the desk to grab that 1940's tie and pull it tight. It had been a long time since she had punched anyone. She remembered those wild days.

When she got home that afternoon, she told Pietro that the kids in school were wrong. He was sat on her knee as she told it like a story. "Long ago, when I was your age, a group of people called Nazi's thought they were better than certain other people. Once their army was strong enough, these people killed people like my family and your father's family." The atrocities flashed through her mind, she chose her words carefully. "But we survived it. As teenagers we came here, to America. We met one night and became friends and then when I got you, I knew that your father carried too much sadness and pain in his heart, I knew that he would never love you like you deserved. The morning he left for Europe, I stayed here."  
"You never saw him again?"  
"No."  
She knew he was too young to comprehend death, but he twiddled with his thumbs, face screwed up into a scowl of childish pain. "I don't wanna know his name. If he didn't love us, I don't care about _him._"

She should've said something more that day, but why? The story bent the truth so much, it could barely hold together.

"We have each other. And that's what counts." She had looked at his hurt face with a smile. "If things had been different, if the world was a fair and good place, we would be sitting here together, I would stay home, cooking for you all and making homemade..." She paused to think what the pretty, bland housewives in television commercials made with their state-of-the-art kitchens.  
Pietro laughed at the image of his mother being normal housewife and the vague idea of a man sitting at the table with a grin on his face like the commercials on television.  
They never mentioned him again after that day.

But now here he was. Her son had questions and she was going to have to be accountable for them.  
But then again, the world as they knew it could end at any moment.

* * *

**You're all going to have to be patient with my constant editing but I have it mostly thought out by now...**

**SO, firstly you can see the Pietro/Peter thing is sort of explained in my own way...Again we have a theme of conformity here with his name and how he has been bullied for his unconventional upbringing in a time that there was so much emphasis on the idealized nuclear family.  
We see their little family change in the next six/seven years, and how things get strained between them.**

**I plan to end the very final chapter with a glimpse of the 1980's.**

**Since labeling the chapters with the year, I'm sure it will be a lot more easy to follow my writing. Each time I write I'm just all... *WHY CAN'T I WRITE? BUT I HAVE STORIES IN MY HEAD!***

**It's all just practice... **

**(Also, if you review me I swear, I write another chapter that day! I'm always so motivated when someone actually likes it and then I get all excited and then *Insert appropriate gif*)**


	2. New York, 1956

**1956**

The night was still and lonely. She stood at the window, hoping for proof that someone nearby was awake too. Misery likes company, or so they say.  
Two months ago she had been living a quiet life. She had been dissatisfied and malcontented, but it had been quiet. Even thinking about it was like trying to remember a dream. The trouble with remembering dreams is trying to remember the beginning.  
As she looked down at the street below she saw some leaves blow across the sidewalk slowly, it made her want so go for a midnight stroll, until she remembered–the gangs that roamed the streets in the twilight might have something to say about that.  
What had started the chain of events?  
What day was it when they met for the first?  
Had _everything_ been planned?  
When did she start to realize the truth?

Magda sighed and decided to put her insomnia to good use. She sat down on the edge of the bed, just like she always had done when she was going to read. She remembered him there, hogging most of the unmade bed while trying to work out, yet again, one of her card tricks using slight of hand. He shuffled and reshuffled the cards, listening to her read in the darkness. She would look over once in a while, but he rarely looked her in the eye. It never ceased to amaze her that he never interrupted her once, listening as she read him various works of English Literature for hours until she was tired.

She had always loved stories. It was in her blood. She remembered the old stories her father told as they sat around the fire in their camp, waiting for the pot to boil. She tried to remember the language, the expressions and movements that made the story come alive, the language that did not rely on letters on a page or sounds with the mouth. It was the language of the soul.

She began to tell herself the story, hoping that some truth would emerge in the early morning hours she had to kill.

* * *

The humidity clung to her as she walked through the noisy street in Harlem that day. The sun and the city fumes mixed together to create a heady combination that made her feel faint. She tucked in her elbows as she walked on through the crowded street that was packed with fruit stalls and boxes of canned goods. The stall owners projected their voices like horns, at a frequency that hurt her ears.  
From the apartments above, washed white bed sheets and shirts blew a little on the washing-lines, occasionally blocking the unforgiving glare of the midday sun.

Traders shouted to each other, competing with the roar of the city. The high pitched mournful sound of a saxophone floated through the air from above, adding to the confusion.  
She felt her arm brush against a moist stranger and give an involuntary shiver as she kept her bag close, it was a bad street for pickpockets. She could feel the mist of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip as her strong legs kept a fast pace. She could feel her fair skin burning already. She envied her fellow dark-skinned pedestrians for a moment. They probably didn't get sunburn.

Magda was the only pale face on the street. At a glance she was an all-American blonde-haired and pale skinned woman. But appearances were deceptive. Yes, appearances were certainly deceptive.

She took in a breath, the sweet smell of fruit mingled with the smell of the heat. She needed a new dress for work and she knew a guy who knew a guy who could get her a pretty dress for a few cents. Then she'd meet up with her friend, have a soda, and start work.

* * *

She stood on the stage, dressed in orange and costume jewelry that sparkled dimly through the haze of smoke. As she sang, her lovely face moved and her expression changed, each one different and more beautiful that the last until you were sucked into a trance, not daring to look away in case you'd miss one look that might bring you to tears, the kind of tears that you cry once in a while if you are alone with your favorite work of art in a museum.  
The sultry voice that would put even Marilyn's to shame floated in the air for a few seconds, ending with a final quiet, "Only you..."

Magda looked across the room as her friend bowed to the unappreciative audience. Not a clap was heard as she listened to the chatter rise once again. She wondered if any of the restaurant-goers even noticed that she could easily be one of the most beautiful women in New York. But they didn't. Their eyes were coated in a film of ignorance. The singer was her friend Doris. She was black.

Miraculously Magda snapped out of her stupor and quickly turned from the open glass doors that she was peering out of. She stood at her post and waited for the diners outside the coatroom. She wore a uniform with a name-tag that said "Margot". The manager didn't like her name, apparently Margot gave a better impression. She looked down at it, she was just another foreigner who slowly, day-by-day, was being stripped of her undesirable identity and turned into something that was colorless, obedient and vague.  
The smoky evening air flew through the doors, blowing the people in. The usual warm fur coats and diamonds were replaced with just more diamonds that sparkled over dresses in loud patterns that screamed over each other for attention. She thought that diamonds were tacky and she hated how their hair was probably as solid as concrete. She was handed hats and gave tickets, smiling like a Russian doll that held her true self inside.  
They were colorless, loud and brash. She smiled as she loathed how they stunk of self-importance and spoke just like the voices on the radio. Fake.  
She watched as they either grumbled about something insignificant or boasted to each another about something equally insignificant.  
She always watched their eyes pause whenever they looked at her, sometimes it was like they saw through her for a second. Like they knew she was a wolf in sheep's clothing. They knew by the oddness of her face, the way her cheeks were not pink and contented, and the way her skin seemed to be stretched a little tighter over her bones that she was not one of them. She had seen starvation, cruelty and death. It was etched into her young face like all the other immigrants from her part of the world that had come to America over the years.  
With a faultless polite accent that made her grown inwardly, she greeted them and took their belongings. When was the last time she used her real voice? Since she was nine she had been pretending to be German. Since the war ended she quickly learned English and pretended to be that instead.

It was the early hours before the crowds had gone. The pain of standing on the same spot for hours had spread up her legs and she watched the last customers with loathing as they sat drinking coffee. She was always one of the last to leave but tonight she didn't feel tired.  
In the last few days she had an itch, a restlessness that gave her palpitations late at night. A desire to get up to no good. She drummed her nails on the polished wooden desk, deep in thought. Was tonight the night? She bit back a sly smile as the last stragglers came to collect their hats and jackets. After the fake pleasantries she jumped up and slid over the polished desk in a flash, just as they had turned their backs. With her skirt billowing, she ran down the steps and through the dark maze of empty tables, one hand on her hair so that it wouldn't tumble out of the elaborate pinned style that disguised the fact she had wild thick hair with a mind of its own.  
She burst through the swinging doors and squinted a little in the bright lights of the huge clean metallic kitchen.

The staff were congregated around a table, eating the leftover un-ordered food and waiting for the last dishes to be washed, idly chatting with tired eyes and cigarettes in their hands. She reached over for some cold pasta that was smothered in a delicious sauce that had a fancy name.  
A smooth arm draped over her as she ate greedily–she had been starving for hours. She turned to see Doris, who taking a long drag of a cigarette while listening to the chatter of their fellow workers.  
"You put on a really great show tonight..." Magda tried to swallow her pasta as she continued, "It was beautiful."  
Doris' smile was radiant as she bowed her head a little, patting her smoothly ironed hair before swatting the air like the compliment was a fly.  
"It was nothin'." Her southern accent was smooth and lyrical as she took another drag. "Is your boo comin' to walk you home tonight?"  
Magda replied, suddenly aware of her reflection shining back at her from one of the huge steel pantry doors. The pale lights made her look more colourless than usual, the bright lights made her look washed out, like denim worn by laborers. Her face was thin and fatigue was written all over it. "Yeah, although I doubt he'll be walking."  
Doris silently laughed and raised an eyebrow. "Nice for some. College boy, isn't he?"  
"Yah." Magda looked up, suddenly guilty. The sous-chef, Felipe looked down, intently looking down at the packet of cigarettes at his hand. It was a known fact that he was shockingly intelligent and hungered for more, but not everyone had the same opportunities in life.

"Evenin' folks." The tall, handsome man came walking in, dressed neatly with hat in hand. Despite greeting everyone in the room, once his eyes found Doris, everyone could've turned into mere clouds of dust at that very moment and he wouldn't have noticed.  
She looked back down at her empty plate before deciding to call it a night, guessing that her "boo" was probably waiting for her.  
She felt no excitement or anticipation.

* * *

**So I'm back, and apparently the only affect tequila has on me is that I speak in a Scottish accent (Nae hangover!) . And the sunburn wasn't bad either, so I'm back a week early because I was itching to come back and write.  
****This story is set in 1950's New York so we'll be looking at themes of immigration, the American dream, Capitalism, racism and gang violence. FOR STARTERS.  
**

******Last Friday I literally got off the plane and went straight to a convention, selling art and the like. Spoke to someone cosplaying as Quicksilver! Very cute indeed!  
****Totally knackered but I want you to review and give me ideas because they ALWAYS become something of an inspiration. **  



	3. 1966

**1966**

Her son was dead. Her soul was in ripped in two. The world faded to black. Nothing was real.  
She cried his name as she cradled him on the kitchen floor, feeling over and over for a pulse. He was still warm.  
She couldn't give up. It wasn't real. Her son, her only son. The fates couldn't take him away. Not yet.  
"Please..." She whispered over and over again, feeling the presence of a God out there. Someone to bargain with.  
Tears blurred her vision as she could still feel his convulsing body in her arms, he shook so hard it felt like the earth was quaking around them.  
He had been standing there just a minute ago. She had told him to go and brush his hair before going to the record shop in town. His pocket money lay in coins over the floor.  
She held his still body as close as she could, her bump got in the way.  
The future had never held so much promise. Now it had been torn away in a flash.


	4. Austria, 1943

**Austria, 1943**

"Magda! _Magda!_" Her elder brother Karl, a crooked smile on his thin face, stood outside their little wooden house in the icy snow. He was motioning her towards him but she kept back, frowning at him. She was too tired and weak to fight with him today.

She shivered while walking on through the camp ground, feeling the slow cold torrent of a running nose slide down her bottom lip. Again her brother called her. It was a sign that he had something to show off.  
She told him to go away as she picked up the nearest scraps of wood that she could find, willing her frozen fingers to grab onto the prickly bark.  
Her brother retorted, this time speaking in German.  
She made another unsophisticated and blunt reply. She did not like speaking German.  
"Dummkopf!" He called out. He watched her come slowly over with the little spiky pile of wood. He was soon to be thirteen and was the third eldest of the family. He watched her, tall and gangly for his age just like she was. She was six, although sometimes her birthday would be forgotten and she would have to think long and hard, estimating something that was accurate.  
Now she was close enough, she could see that he was holding four small round balls in-between his fingers-two in each hand.  
Envy crossed her face and her pale brows almost knitted together in frustration. _Father had taught him a new trick!_

His thin and sunken face lit up for those few moments as he moved the carved wooden balls so that they wriggled through his fingers at the same time, as if they had come alive and were moving to their own accord since his fingers barely moved.  
Karl was her only rival for learning Father's secrets. He and Magda were constantly at odds, pleading and pawing their father every time he sat down, tired from another day of labour. Both were obsessed with magic. With every new trick learned another illusion was shattered, but somehow it never seemed any less magical. Her father still beguiled even their mother with his card tricks and the impossible things that he could procure from the thin coat he always wore. Magda still liked to feel it now and then when it dried at the fire. Every inch was searched for hidden pockets or compartments. None had been found.

She stomped on past once she was sure he was doing it correctly, into the house that was once a wagon in which they travelled the country in.  
She missed the freedom, the fleeting road that vanished to reveal new places, sights and people. She missed the long summer days and nights, picking flowers and fruit in orchards. But now the German's had told them to stay put. They were not permitted to travel any longer.

"Magda!" Her elder sister Johann sat in the dark beside the smoking fire, holding a crying baby. She told her to take off her shoes. Magda complied with some grumbling before stomping over to the fire to feed it with wood, then marched like a soldier back into her corner where she sat, curled up and internally grumbling about hunger, frozen toes and now her brother.

Her thoughts were interrupted now and then by Johann's coughing. It's sound made her flinch, like it was the sound of death itself. Her sister now stayed at home while Mother, Father and eldest brother Stefan worked in the factory.

She eagerly awaited her father's return, determined to learn something that was superior to Karl's latest achievement.

* * *

She had been waiting all evening for her father as she was curled up in her corner. She liked the corner best because there was no holes in the wood that let in icy drafts. She almost felt warm when she was curled up for a few hours under a blanket and some straw.  
She impatiently watched the door as she rested her head on her skinny knees until she finally she heard it. The sound of the workers returning from the big factory. She could hear the slow shuffle and the mumbling of men and women, exhausted and cold.

Johann slowly looked up from the sleeping baby, from here only her thin silhouette could be seen. Sometimes the shadow looked like that of a skull and frightened her, but then it would return to normal in the light. Their mother went to work instead of poor Johann these days. Magda missed her parents as soon as they left each morning.

The sound of footsteps made her jump as she got up swiftly, ignoring the pain of her joints. She could hear it was Father first and opened the door quickly so that she could wrap her arms around him.  
Outside, it was so cold it made her blink back tears of shock as the cold wind slapped her in the face. A cold hand settled on her head as she pulled back into the shack that was warm in comparison.  
"Magda..." Her father always pronounced her name in the German way. It was only he that was allowed to do that. She stumbled backwards as she remained tight by his side, impatiently waiting for him to take off the frozen leather boots. Her mother and elder brother followed in, shutting the wooden door behind them and pulling an old rug over it to keep out the droughts.

She remained silent as the three slowly took off their wet coats and boots, their purple fingers shook as the water dripped off them. She held her tongue as her parents and brother was talking in hushed voices. She was not sure if it was because it was from fatigue or that it was secretive. They were talking about men coming for blood. Blood was important, they had been told that people of pure blood was safe, therefore she was a little worried.  
Other members of their community had commented on her looks before, and while it was a well known fact that there was no such thing as a "Gypsy curse" they were still superstitious and saw her light skin, eyes and hair as a bad omen. The old ladies said that proper gypsy girls had black, poker straight hair. She wondered sometimes if she'd be taken away in the dead of night by soldiers.

Her father was comforting Mother, her face slowly unwinding the taught expression that knotted her face. He said that the rumour was that the soldiers would arrive tomorrow morning. He said that they would be marched somewhere, perhaps a government office, to trace their descendants and purity. Her father smiled sadly as he glanced at her. She wondered if he was thinking about the other families who weren't like them. She remembered how proud she used to be of her family. They were respected as one of the best fighting families, her father's brothers especially were renowned for their skill, beating opponents throughout the country for the family honour. Although Father was equally capable, he relied on his wits and sharp mind instead. That, and of course "Grandfather's gift". Something that had always confused her, since it was always mentioned in whispers and when she did ask she was told off sharply. She assumed that it was a secret stash of gold or jewels that was secret so no one would steal them. All she knew was that it skipped a generation apparently. She was rather disappointed she wasn't getting it, whatever it was.

* * *

**Hello, so I got another review so here's a chapter.  
Just so you know, I'm keeping the best ones hostage until I get more reviews! So you, yes, YOU! If you want to read chapters full of Erik/Magneto and Pietro/Quicksilver stuff, I suggest you post a little review now rather than leaving it to someone else later! (THERE MIGHT NOT BE A LATER)**

**I'm sure you want to know how Erik and Magda meet. And it is explained how Magda is drawn to him, she reluctantly lets him lead her astray on the road to vengeance. **

**By the way: "The Tattooed Stranger" is actually the name of a film from the 50's. I just thought it was cool.**

**Another thing: Obviously, all mutations that we see in the films are different but I imagined Pietro with dark hair as a child, before it manifests when he's ten or so. I did put a little thought into this bit, imagining the drastic changes a body would have to go through to go at that speed. So basically the brain would be the first thing that would freak out, sending signals to the body to change drastically. I also imagined him going through fits of spasms because things like his heart would be going so fast it would be more like a humming sound, or the fact his bones and muscles are changing rapidly. And then there's the hair. Something that would come after the whole process is over. **


	5. 1956 (Cont)

**1956**

She walked out of the bright kitchen, almost dragging her feet. Another boring guy awaited her with his bashfulness, small talk, small ideas, small plans.  
The huge dining room was dark and the soft lights had mostly been extinguished.

She wondered what it was that made her stop to look into the far corner that night. Had she sensed that someone was there? Was it a coincidence? Was it planned?

But she did stop in her tracks to look in the far corner in which a dark figure was situated in the shadows. She stopped, cursing herself for not locking the doors. People could be so inconsiderate when it came to closing hours.  
She took in a breath as she gathered the courage to kindly but firmly tell him that they were closed.  
"Sir, I'm sorry..." She walked towards him, keeping her distance while her fists were balled. "The bar is closed."

He sat, drinking from a crystal tumbler that held amber liquor. Staring ahead. There was immediately something about him that displeased her. People had ignored her before, but she understood and analysed how it was their own insecurities and the need for self-importance that drove them to treat her and others like dirt. This man however, looked ahead with the air of a King–no–the Pope or a messenger of God.

She could've fetched Felipe or one of the others who could be far more persuasive than she, but tonight she stood her ground. Every fibre of her being wanted to knock him down a notch.  
He was dressed immaculately, although there was something overly conformist about it, overly bleak. Like he was a millionaire undertaker. She didn't look at his face closely as she stood, almost fearing that she'd see something that wasn't detestable.

Glass still in hand, he sat back a little, as if he was a philosopher who had been rudely interrupted during an enlightenment by the village idiot. Maybe he _was_ a philosopher or poet. Either way she knew words couldn't reach him. But she had more than a proverbial trick up her sleeve.  
Before he could set the crystal glass back on the immaculate and untouched linen table cloth, she took both ends and in a single swipe the table was cloth-less, leaving cutlery, glasses and the candelabra untouched. She stood, triumphant with the linen under her arm. Even the candles still flickered on the table. The unwelcome guest sat, a mere glance was her reward. Usually a person would've been taken back. Or at least jumped a little.  
The exhibitionist in her felt a little annoyed.  
"Sir..." Her voice was a little too firm. It showed weakness. She wasn't in control.  
The loiterer rested his hand on his expensive trilby that lay on the table. "...But of course." The face that was much younger than she had anticipated looked up. "Once I finish my drink."  
It lay there. He made no move to pick it up again. The glass glinted boldly in the faint light.

All was silence. Hopefully there was someone left in the kitchen. She hated closing up alone. She had reached the end of her tether. "Allow me to help you with zhat."  
Their eyes met for a second as her American accent slipped a little in her nervousness. She grabbed the nearest folded cloth napkin and in a fluid move, she unraveled it and threw it on the glass before immediately lifting the napkin right off the table, scrunching it in a ball and throwing it onto the table. The glass had completely disappeared.  
She smiled with pride inwardly, she had been determined not to mess it up and humiliate herself. The glass lay safe, concealed.

* * *

Magda sat in the darkness, remembering that night two months ago. She suddenly wanted a cigarette, but decided to wait for the craving to subside.  
She stretched her legs out, and briefly looked at her one bedroom apartment that could be vaguely seen in the blue dark. She could see the old brass bathtub in the corner in which she bathed in every morning, preparing herself for the hot day ahead.

He had always shook his head when she washed in full view, looking away as if he was shocked and appalled at her vulgar display of nudity. He was chaste when it suited him. Just to make her feel uncomfortable.  
She remembered the day he was eating bread and cheese while sitting at the window. She had been rinsing the last of the soap from her hair before laying back, letting the warm sun that was streaming in settle on her bare chest that was barely covered by the soapy water._  
Would you mind? I'm eating.  
_She smiled as she remembered her half-hurt reaction. Feeling suddenly very naked and vulnerable, she had immediately turned around in the tub and threw a bar of soap at his face. She remembered how his hand went out automatically to stop it like any other metal object. Instead the soap smacked into his face and for that moment, after the initial flash of anger, they both almost laughed at each other. They smiled for a long while, like it was a long forgotten reflex or habit that had been enjoyable but forgotten. She was quite sure it had been genuine. But it had been just for that moment. The rest had been a lie from the very beginning.

She wondered if he knew from the very beginning he heard her slip of accent. Had he been searching New York for an accomplice? Or waiting for an opportunity?

She combed her tawny blonde hair back with her fingers. They came back damp. Sleep was an impossibility no matter how much she craved to turn off her thoughts.

* * *

**To be continued tomorrow? Maybe? Be a wee dote and review, okay? Review for Pietro chapter! **


	6. Thanksgiving, 1966

**1966**

It was Thanksgiving. She never celebrated the holiday before Bob, but now that he was in their lives, it was only right to follow tradition. Even if that tradition was to cook the driest and tasteless type of poultry ever to exist. She had been basting for hours and now vegetables, sauces and trimmings had to be cooked at the same time. The pressure was getting to her.  
"Bob?" Her voice raised over that damned television set that was showing some sport that apparently was important. She tried to pat her hair back into the beehive shape it was currently sprayed in. "I need help in here!"

The rain pelted down on the quiet suburbia. She was living the dream. A house, family, a soon-to-be husband, a managerial position, and all the mod-cons that the glossy magazines told her she needed.

She was knelled over the turkey and with effort she slowly got up, her bump was now a boulder that made her rather useless. This baby was making itself quite comfortable apparently. As she stood up with difficulty and a little pain, it seemed like the whole world was against her. She took a sharp intake of breath as the "good wife" persona was now well and truly off. A fiery scowl lit her face. Bob hadn't been much help lately. Grouchy and withdrawn.  
She wondered why this country liked holidays so much. It never failed to bring out the worst in people.

"Mom?"

She turned from the direction of the living room and towards the other door into the kitchen. He stood, face pale and grey. His dark eyes stared out, looking almost black. He barely slept these days. He said that he couldn't.  
"P-" the rant that was in her lungs vanished when she looked at him, wishing with all her heart that she was suffering his pain for him. "You should be in bed!"  
The dinner was abandoned as she went over to him immediately, bringing his shaved head to her chest as she put her arms around him. Her son was alive.

She remembered those two days that he was in a coma. She didn't leave the hospital. Couldn't. Pietro was more than just a son. He was the only person since her family died that returned her love when she gave it to them. To love and to be loved back.  
That was why she didn't agree to let her son be used for research. A variety of people in uniforms had pleaded with her and told her that it was for his own good. He would get the best education. It was just observational. They had offered her an extortionate amount of money.

She had refused.  
They didn't tell her why her poor, comatose son was so interesting. She didn't trust them.  
She remembered when German soldiers came to take "pure Gypsy" blood from the camps. Some were taken away for "analysis". She never trusted hospitals.

She could feel him shaking. She stroked his head while asking what was wrong. He mumbled something, eyes closed shut, like he was afraid something was going to happen again. He cleared his throat.  
"The world...stopped again." He hugged her closer, like the world was going to collapse. "I thought I was going to be stuck there forever. I couldn't _move,_ Mom."  
"I know, I know..." She stroked his shaven head, noticing how the short hair shone pale white in the dull light of the kitchen. While he was in the coma most of his hair had fallen out. Even his eyebrows. She couldn't wait for it to grow back, with him being so frail it reminded her of the dark days of her past.

A noise from the doorway made them both turn to see Bob. Empty beer in hand, he looked at the two with a mixture of guilt and suspicion.  
Bob had wanted her to sign the papers, handing Peter over to strangers. She wondered if she resented her for that. The money those people had offered could've given them a better standard of living. Better as in flashy.

"Have you decided to help with the dinner?" She smiled slightly with her arm still around her son. Bob glanced from one to the other before opening the refrigerator, his dark red hair was all that was seen as he rooted around for another beer.  
"You're joking, right?" He held the cold beer in his hand, his large hand opening it with a sharp hiss. Everything about him was square and clean-cut. American as apple-pie, he was an ex-semi-professional footballer turned taxi-driver.  
Her smile dropped slightly, trying to keep it light-hearted. "Why not? It's just stirring a few pots while I finish this blasted turkey!"  
"This," He pointed in the general direction on the oven, "is for the women. Give me a call when you need me to carve."  
She watched him leave the room with no expression. "Fine." She looked down at her son, in a few years he would be her height, maybe taller. The rain continued to stream down the windows. She sighed, a lopsided smile pulled at her slowly aging face. "Looks like it's just you and me..." She refused to feel belittled as she held her head up higher. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

The world had stopped again.  
He couldn't tell if his heart had stopped beating or was going so fast it wasn't even beating.  
His mouth was open, waiting for a breath let alone sound.  
He was behind a closed door. Mom was in trouble. He couldn't move.

He had been in bed when he first heard shouting from the kitchen. Then a smash. He knew it was about him. Always.

Bob had been okay at first. He knew plenty of kids in movies and books who hated step-parents but since he never had a father in the first place, it's hard to miss what you've never had.  
Bob had come into their life a few years ago, a guy who brought flowers and records and took her out on dates. He didn't know a lot about him apart from the fact that he was divorced, was the youngest of four boys, his three older brothers all died in the war, and he was a Yankees fan.  
Then Bob moved in. Sometimes he wondered if it was because his mom wanted to appear normal. When they moved the neighborhood had been extremely curious, guessing if his mom was a widow, divorced or separated. Usually single mothers lived in the city.  
Even now the place gave him the creeps sometimes. He felt that at any moment a mob like in those black and white movies would surround the house, evicting them because they don't cut the grass on a Saturday or something. Bob was their piece of normality. Someone who lived, spoke, breathed normal. His mom went along with it mostly, although sometimes she'd glance his way, with a smile that made a dimple on the right side of her face. It was like a secret message between them, like they both knew something Bob didn't.

He had walked down the dark hallway, following the noise.

* * *

**Thanks for the reviews folks! This chapter wouldn't've happened without them! Keep them coming!**

**Austria, 1943 is coming up next!**


	7. Auschwitz II-Birkenau, 1943

**Germany, 1944**

"_Zigeuner_! _Zigeuner_! _Zigeuner_!"

The world had been violently turned sideways.  
She lay in the mud, the earthy sludge seeped into her dark blonde plaits as she looked up at her opposition. His name, she did not know. His hair glowed auburn in the bright sun as it shone through the dark clouds after the downpour earlier that morning.

The children in various classes had quickly united in a circle, eagerly watching their comrade beat the degenerate who dared to rise up and become one of them. They had watched the films that explained why it was necessary to do such things.  
Their fellow classmate was tall and muscular for his age and was one of the most promising members of _Deutsches Jungvolk_. He stood tall and watched with superiority as she slowly got up, the children who formed the outer circle had begun to kick her so she'd get up. They chanted the word with all the more poison.  
She stood up. They told her she was weak. But then she was also told that she was too strong. She was a wicked and hardened gypsy who was like a weed in a field of barley. A parasite.

But, she was scared to fight back. She would certainly get lashed by the teacher, then she'd face the wrath of Frau Himmler back at the house. She watched the hulking boy who was probably thinking she was more hurt than she was. A little blood was nothing to her. She had had some fierce fights with her siblings as a child.  
As the mud seeped from the thick hair that Frau Himmler had pulled into braids in a way that hurt every inch of her scalp, she suddenly realized that now she was dirty she'd get lashed either way. She swiped the dripping dirty water that was oozing down her neck, stopping it before it touched her snowy white collar.  
She watched him coming. Her brother Karl has much faster than this boy ever was.  
She could tell he was about to spit on her.  
Mud seeped through her tight fists and as the crowd give a final victorious cry, she flung a handful of filth into his eyes when they least expected it. In that instant she came forward, reaching up for his neatly combed hair–nails dragging through his scalp as she ignored the powerful pummels that he gave her and yanked his head down into her dirty knee with a dull loud smack.  
The small crowd gasped and a shout for help was immediately raised now that the tables had turned.  
The only pain she felt now was the stinging pain of her knuckles as she dealt blows to the muddy nose, wanting to force her enemy to feel the pain that burned through her heart, every single minute of the day. She was alone in this cruel world now.

They had stolen her from her family that day in Poland. From there she was taken to Germany where for six months she and many others were measured, observed, trained and taught. After that, she was taken to live with the frozen-hearted Frau Himmler. A widow who had lost two of her three sons in the war. She had been persuaded to reluctantly adopt her, but Magda's presence was little consolation to her heartache.

* * *

** Auschwitz II-Birkenau, 1943**

They had been standing for hours, or if you counted the journey in the cattle wagons, they had been standing for days.  
They had been told to leave their homes and their great number marched for miles. Even the sick and elderly. She worried most for Johann, her eldest, beautiful yet oddly named sister. The weak had marched on the inside to stay warm and to avoid the possible violence from soldiers ordering them to move quicker.

They had been told that they were going somewhere nearby that day, but rumours were that they were in Poland now. Why? No one knew. Some were panicking. Mothers screamed for their children. Elderly women closed their eyes, muttering to themselves. Her family stayed close, her eldest brother Stefan kept his arm around her. She hid under his thin coat, not embarrassed to seem childish. She was scared.

When they were initially herded off the wagons, they emerged to see a place that looked rather like a train station. The huts had boxes of flowers in the windows and everyone was a little more settled. Until they marched past them and a smell that was worse than anything she had smelled before hit their noses.  
They were walking to a place that looked like a prison and her brother Stefan, who rarely even spoke to her usually, held her tighter as they stuck with their family. As if sensing her fear he bent his head down to hers, whispering that their father would find a way to get them out. He offered her a little bread he had been saving as a freezing wind blew through them. She shook her head. For the first time in six months she didn't feel hungry.

They stood in line as the crowd in front disappeared. They waited.

An hour later it was their turn to line up. Immediately a voice rang, calling men to separate from the women and children. The soldiers brandished their guns as they said that everyone would be reunited soon.

Magda looked around, trying to see past the bustling crowd. The soldiers where talking to men who were dressed a little differently, constantly glancing at the crowd. One smoked a cigarette as he looked a little frustrated. These men were SS doctors.

Her father looked at them all, his once healthy olive completion was grey like the ash that covered the ground on which they stood. Reluctantly he and her brothers went over with the other men for selection. She stared on nervously as she watched the doctors begin the selection.

* * *

**Review for Erik in the next chapter!**


	8. Summer, 1956

**New York, 1956**

She walked out, the street was empty except for a single car. This was no second-hand reasonably priced affair, either. This car was an expensive sleek beast in the dark, shining elegantly under the street lights. After a moment, taking it in, she turned again and wondered if her date was coming. She flicked back her hair, feeling rather foolish dithering on the side-walk. She heard the click of a car door and the click of an expensive shoe. The dark figure emerged in the dim light. She awaited the tired line, "Need a ride, sweetheart?" While she wasn't interested in the driver, she looked at the car with envy. If she had a weakness, it was speed. Horses, cars and even planes sparked her interest since she had been a small child.

"You waiting for someone?"

She looked out, not looking him in the eye and desperately hoping that someone would come to save her. "Yes." She replied stiffly. Of course it would belong to _him_ of all people.  
He looked at her under the brim of his hat. All she saw was the glint of an eye. She wondered if he was going to try to take her to some motel room, thinking she was _that _type of girl. They always assumed that if you were a waitress.

"Where are you from, by the way?" A casual interrogation. He could be a detective for all she knew. She juggled internally between continued silence that made her gut churn or an answer that might seem like she was interested in him.  
"Nowhere." Her reply was blunt as she folded her arms.  
The smooth American took something out of his breast pocket. "So...you're a German, Fräulein?"  
"No." She replied too quickly. Many still had a vendetta against Germans in the city, lots of false accusations. To some, every German was a Jew-hating, strudel eating Nazi. She swallowed nervously at the cold, superficial charm of his voice. She had heard voices like that many times before. It was unpleasant to be reminded of it.

A painful flash of memory seared through her involuntarily as she remembered screaming in a soldiers arms. Next thing she knew, a train had taken her to Germany where she was to stay in a strange place where doctors measured every single part of her body at least once a week, fed her well, taught her strange histories, punished those who spoke anything that was not German and made her take an oath to something she didn't understand. Her and others slowly forgot their parents, the younger you were the quicker you forgot. After about six months they took her away again to live with Frau Himmer. They had tried to Germanise her. But she was a Romany. She had no nationality.

"Just a regular American then?" The shadow moved a little again looking down the street as if waiting for her date also. "I bet he drives a good second-hand car, American model of course."  
"Excuse me?"  
He fiddled with something as he spoke. "...I bet he wears this college cardigan, takes you to movies on Friday nights..." He brimmed with sly confidence as he took off his hat. "Does he only kiss you in the dark? Do you go dancing and after a milkshake, he takes you home like a gentleman?"  
She was too embarrassed to speak, and knew she had blown it. Her cover as little-miss-good-American-citizen was well and truly blown. Although now she questioned who _he_ was. She had been expecting that he was an executive in his thirties, but she could hear youth in his voice. Much too young to drive a car like that.  
"Who the hell do you think you are?" She was tired of hinting that she was didn't appreciate his company. She was going to have to be more explicit.  
He stepped onto the side-walk. She took a step back, assessing his height and weight from the shadow. "Stay away from me." She slowly took off one of her gloves, not taking her eyes off him.  
"Are you happy being a coat-check girl, Margot?"  
No answer.  
"Are you sick of it all?"  
She knew he wasn't talking about being a coat-check girl. What infuriated her most was that he was _right_. She hated the conformity, the emptiness of life here. Death didn't loom over you every day. Life was for granted. Here in this city, money was something to live _for,_ instead of needing just enough money to live. This time almost ten years ago she was running through Berlin, dressed like a boy with pocketfuls of American cigarettes. They were the currency. German money was virtually worthless. Each day was a struggle. She would never be able to talk to someone here about how she starved, stole and fought her way out of Russian occupied Berlin as a ten-year-old. She had seen many terrible things. She could never share something like that in a malt shop, talking about starvation over some sickly sweet dessert. To divulge how she had seen what humans were capable of over a hot dog. She was alone in this world.

"Excuse me. I have to go." She turned sharply in the direction of her apartment that was over two miles away. Her legs would ache in bed tonight. But she had a good excuse to get rid of her "boyfriend" now. He was a bore anyway.  
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" He laughed humourlessly as he came up behind her, within a few feet. His charming exterior was suddenly tainted with blatant loathing. "At least let me drive you home Fräu-"  
She turned around before a hand could touch her, grab her and hurt her. She started with a left hook that could've belonged to a sailor and quickly went for the nose, hitting it with a crack against her bare knuckles. "Don't," she watched him as he almost doubled over, his hand tying to stop the rush of scarlet, "call me a _Fräulein, _you bastard._" _Worried that someone would see her embarrassing display of rage, she turned on her heel and walked away quickly, almost at a run. She wiped the back of her hand on her cheap dress, feeling tainted. It had been a long time since she had done something like that. But he was a man. He could deal with it.

Seven seconds later, it was _she_ who was doubled over. She couldn't breathe. She stopped as she clawed at her chest, coughing. Something was crushing the life out of her, she continued walking, desperate to get away. It constricted around her, even tighter until she was on her knees right under a street light. Its yellow halo pooled around her as her shaking hands grabbed at the under-wire in her corset. The world went spinning as she looked over her shoulder.

* * *

**Auschwitz II-Birkenau, 1943**

A few older girls in the line were being picked out as they stood. Her mother was being questioned as she hid her whimpering baby sister underneath her coat. A solemn man who seemed to be almost hunched over with glasses had a pen in hand as he looked at them all, asking if they were gypsies before calling to the guards that the selection would take longer today. He slicked a hand over his prematurely thinning light brown hair, he was not yet middle-aged.  
Magda stood watching the man with fear, not taking her eyes off him. As if he could smell her fear, he suddenly settled his intense gaze on her. He stopped, hands behind his back. Those around her flinched. She froze, rooted to the ground in fear.  
As he stared at her, the crowd of women and children had parted like the red sea. The doctor took one hand out from behind his back, his finger indicating her to come over. "Kommen."  
She looked left to right, desperately hopping that he was summoning someone else. But it was useless. He was not. He told her to come over again. Her mother was crying and shaking her head as she let go of her. She walked towards him with a thudding heart, every fibre of her being tried to stop her. She was a few feet away from him. A little water leaked from an eye as she shook, staring at the ground and her boots. They were about three sizes too big and water leaked through the left sole.  
"Nachschlagen."  
She was startled as she obeyed, looking upwards. She watched him look into her eyes, searching before he nodded his head in approval before walking on down the line.  
Ten minutes later nine children including her stood, including a pair of seven-year-old twins. They stood close to each other. She was one of the tallest and eldest in the group.  
"Kinder kommen!" He stood, turning as some parents in line wailed.

Pietro was amongst the men who stood solemnly in line before being ordered to march in the other direction. They had been told that everyone would meet again once they gotten a shower. But suddenly he saw the wild sandy hair of his daughter following a small line of children who were being marched away to a different gate. It was only when he saw a pair of twins in the group panic gripped him. His dark eyes suddenly grew wild as he pushed through the line of men. He had seen twins taken away before from the camp. They had never come back.  
"Stopp!" He yelled after his daughter. He pleaded to the turned uniformed far-away back of the doctor, quickly trying to think of something that could save her.  
Immediately the soldiers told him to halt, a luger pistol pointed at his temple. He stood quite still, hands up. He closed his eyes, blocking out the cries and gasps from the crowd–a stillness settling over him as he concentrated.  
He called out to the doctor who stopped along with the children. The soldier screamed that he would shot him.  
"Ist es das, was Sie suchen?" Pietro called out, knowing that it was time.  
The doctor shook his head, the gypsy was clearly out of his mind and they were on a tight schedule. Immediately the soldier pulled the trigger without hesitation.  
A wail sounded but the gun merely clicked.  
The doctor squinted as freezing rain came down. He could just about see the thin dark haired man reach into his thin jacket, pulling out a handful of bullets and letting them fall through his fingers and drop to the ground.  
"Aufhören!" The doctor screamed for the officers to put down their guns. Hope glinted in his small bulging eyes. It was an impossible feat, it was meant to be only in folklore that there was a strain of people–descendants of the Egyptians–who passed on the mysteries of the East that slowly travelled through the West, surviving hundreds of years of persecution while being secretive, no one really knew anything about them or their language.

Pietro saw from his face that his hunch was right. He looked at his daughter, her large eyes stared back like a ghostly pale version of her mother. He knew that he had to bargain with them. He began to plead, asking them to let his daughter go. Then a spark of inspiration hit him. "Sie ist Deutsch!" He yelled, before adding in Romani for Magda to play along. He spoke in German again, confessing that she was stolen as a baby.

The doctor sneered at the ploy, grabbing for the skeletal girl. Even if she was German, it wouldn't make a difference. She would still be useful for research. He retorted that he would simply kill the little girl if he, the Zigeuner, did not comply.

Madga watched as her father closed his eyes again. She held her breath, wishing she could do something and hoping her father would save her. She had a bad feeling about the man who had his hand on her shoulder.

* * *

**Added a bit more. Just for you!**


	9. Brandenburg, Germany, 1945

**1968**

She sat in the kitchen, the early light of Spring floated in through the kitchen as she cut up the broccoli and chicken into tiny pieces, ignoring the howling of a guitar that was drifting from the basement cranked up far too loud. Apparently "but it's _Hendrix!_" was a valid excuse when she had shouted for him to turn it down.  
The toddler sat, fidgeting and letting out creaking groans of boredom and frustration while ignoring the spoon that was slowly making its way to her mouth.  
Tired and bored herself, Magda knew of only one way to stop her grumbling before it escalated into a full-scale explosion of tears and tantrums.  
"Wanda! Look at Mommy!" She had put down the bowl and spoon and now had her hands palms up and empty like someone was pointing a gun at her. With an exaggerated expression she reached behind the toddler's ear and seemingly pulled out a spoon, gasping in mock-amazement.  
The toddler sat, distracted but not impressed enough to laugh and clap the way Peter used to. She would have to dust off something a bit more impressive. She whipped out a clean ironed cotton handkerchief that she usually carried around in her back pocket in case she needed to clean toddler snot and dribble, shaking it out and covering the bowl.  
"Look Wanda!" She slowly lifted the edges of the handkerchief and lo and behold, the bowl appeared to be hovering underneath the white cotton. Little Wanda sat taking it in before smiling a little, chewing on her finger. She gurgled a laugh as the handkerchief seemingly rose into the air, higher and higher off the table before it levitated down again. Magda, still holding the white corners watched her daughter, feeling a little less tired and wretched. "Okay, will I make the bowl appear again?"  
Two tiny hands reached out grabbing for the cloth, groaning and making a sentence that resembled "I want to".  
"By all means..." She watched Wanda as she grabbed the cloth. The bowl that had been clearly sitting under the cloth less that a second ago had vanished as the toddler whipped it off. She looked at Wanda before looking around her, stumped.  
A squeal of laughter from Wanda was heard as Peter appeared, bowl in hand and looking rather pleased with himself. "Your magic tricks still suck Mom. Even _she_ isn't buying it."  
She walked over to snatch Wanda's dinner from his hand. "I remember that when you were her age you loved them. You could've watched me for hours as a kid!"  
He rolled his eyes, barely a teenager and yet he was already moody as anything. "Whatever. I'm going to the arcade."  
She put a hand on her hip, exasperated. "Is there nowhere else in town you can go?"  
"Uh, no. This place sucks. I wish we never moved from the city." He was just about to turn but his mother grabbed him. She had to hold him down whenever she tried to get a few words in edgeways. He was a constant reminder of herself at that age.  
"Promise me you won't get in trouble Peter. I know that when I was your age I thought I knew everything and I..."  
He rolled his eyes, cutting her off. "O-okay Mom. You stole apples and pocket-watches. I get it. You had it hard. Now can I go?"  
She shook her head, thinking how she was at that age. There was nothing to say. "Wait, Pietro." He stopped, dark eyes watching her from under the baseball cap he always wore. "Here's five dollars. Go and have fun. Make some friends."  
He looked at her, taking the money and looking at her incredulously. He wasn't in the habit of having many friends. It was something that made her a little sad and guilty. "Maybe take a girl to the cinema?" She winked at him as he mumbled something and bashfully left before his embarrassing mother could see him squirm uncomfortably.

"Petee!" She turned to see an annoyed Wanda now struggling in the chair she has almost grown out of, throwing the spoon across the floor while being outraged that her sibling had not taken her too. She kicked her little limbs out and let out a yell.  
Magda sighed as she looked down at Wanda's dinner which by now was cold. She sighed as she let Wanda out of the straps to charge around while she re-heated their dinner, counting the hours before bed-time.

* * *

**Brandenburg, Germany, 1945**

People in the village said they were coming. The Russians. But they weren't sure when. The winter was still harsh and many hoped the Red Army would be slow to advance. Especially since they lived in the country. They would be more interested in Berlin.  
Frau Himmler was a hulking woman. From behind it was only her braided hair and skirt that ever gave any indication at all that she was not a strapping, if a little short, man. She had been the closest thing Magda had to a parent and despite the beatings, constant nagging and how she believed that Magda had cursed her–Magda still believed there was something she could do to make Frau Himmler like her. For Magda knew that she was very sad. Sad because her husband and sons were gone, sad because suddenly the rumour was spreading that the war wasn't going well. But despite this, Magda saw the good in her. Frau Himmler would sometimes grudgingly allow her to play outside in the forest for hours in summer evenings instead of poring over books, or when it was Christmas she woke up to see a pair of knitted socks and orange, being told that "it was only because no one else wanted them!" while they peeled potatoes for dinner that day as she thanked her. Himmler devoted hours to her education, despite her failing eyesight. She taught her how to read and write in English, the purpose being that Magda read to her at night as she dosed like a sleeping bear in the flickering light of the fire. Frau Himmler grunted dangerously each time Magda stumbled over a word. Before long she could read poetry and novels perfectly despite hardly knowing what any of it meant. She liked Dickens the best since there was illustrations through it and she liked _Oliver Twist_ very much.  
Frau Himmler's dead husband "Ferdie" had been a professor in literature before the war. A trunk in the attic hid away many English and American works that Himmler just couldn't part with. He had studied in Cambridge before he came back to Germany as a young man. He had openly been against the Nazi Party but died the year after they came into power, suffering from a heart attack. Frau Himmler was very conflicted when it came to politics. Very conflicted about how she should feel about Magda.

But now the Red Army were coming and people were afraid of their vengeance. Many wanted to leave for Berlin. They were vulnerable with no weapons to defend themselves. Berlin was two days ride on horseback. Spring was coming soon and Frau Himmler seemed to be getting thinner day-by-day with worry. Magda was eight-years old and was still tall thin and gangly despite being fell fed for over almost two years. Frau Himmler always mumbled about how unhealthy she looked, pinching her cheeks constantly to try to get a healthy German ruddiness into her thin face that was already starting to lose its childlike roundness. She tutted and fretted with Magda's wild and impossibly thick lion's mane every morning at dawn, likening her to the ugly duckling while she scrubbed her neck with half-frozen water. But despite all this, all they had was each other.

* * *

**Thanks again, people! Even if you're only visiting, leave an anon with whatever is on your mind as you read this! Good, bad, ugly, let's have it!  
Thanks to you, the reviewers and followers. You are who I write for since, what's the point of writing if no one is reading it?  
Comment for who you want to see and what year!  
**


	10. 1956, New York

**1956**

She woke up stiffly, rubbing her neck. After the initial wakening, the memories of the night before crashed down on her like a flash-flood and she opened her eyes in panic but her surroundings stilled her inner torment at once. The small living room was silent as amber light streamed in through shabby curtains, the specks of dust that floated in the air turned into gold as they touched the light, giving the room an instant feeling of church-like sanctuary and peace. It was Doris's apartment.  
She got off the chair, still in her clothes from the night before. She had remembered the pool of light that surrounded her as she lay on the ground gasping for air and could still feel her lungs trying to push against the force that was crushing her. And that was it.  
She looked through the curtains, pulling them open so that the bright light burst in.  
"Thank the Lord we found you on the side-walk last night!"  
She looked around to see her friend and now saviour, Doris. While Magda's face would show a sleepless night with dark circles and red eyes in an instant, Doris could go for weeks without a proper nights' rest and still her face would never betray her fatigue. Her dark satin skin was flawless even in the harsh morning light, eyes bright and her usually dark iris's shone golden as she squinted in the sun. Madga looked back, knowing that her own face was likely to be ghostly pale, flawed and puffy.  
She didn't know what to say. The shock was still very real. It had been a long time since she had had a brush with danger. She started to say something but tears inexplicably sprang to her eyes as she bit her lip, waiting until they subsided.  
"Oh, child...you must've just fainted. You should take more care of yourself."  
Despite the fact that they were more-or-less the same age, since they first met Doris had always mothered her. Maybe it was the fact that Doris had came from a big family that she had left behind in the south, or that Magda had been a naive and friendless immigrant with little knowledge of modern American life–she didn't know. But now the friendly hand on her arm was forcing her to purge the emotions she felt. Acts of kindness was the only thing that could ever draw tears from her.

As she was enveloped in a tight hug, her friend patted her head like a mother would her child. Magda tried to speak, biting her lip and quickly regaining control over herself. "I-I didn't faint." She closed her eyes as she focused on keeping her voice from wavering. "There was a man..."  
Doris quickly pulled from the embrace, both hands on her shoulders as she looked intently into Magda's face with shock. "A man? A stranger?" Doris looked at her with eyes full of meaning, glancing down at her dress. A slight tear at the collar and front was suddenly apparent. "He hurt you?"  
Magda looked down at her dress, pulling the tear and feeling the underwear that almost showed through. She could feel the thin wires of metal. Confusion pushed away the shock for a moment.  
"Magda? Tell me what happened."  
She looked up, knowing that it would be impossible to explain the impossible. Who would believe what happened if even _she_ didn't believe it?  
"No, it wasn't...I don't think so. I don't know."  
"Some damn dirty rotten..." She mumbled in her southern slang as she fixed Magda's tawny hair and shook her head while closing her eyes. "Well, I found you five minutes after I first left..." She looked at Magda sideways, waiting for a reply. There was none. Doris frowned a little, emphatically continuing. "You shouldn't be working jobs like this, you know. You are _white_," Magda glanced at her. Doris knew her history, but she was telling her like it was. "And you are _educated. _If I was you, I wouldn't be working as no coat-check girl. I'd make something of myself."  
She looked at her friend with a little guilt. It was true. Magda had been a second-class citizen–in the old country. But in America she had learnt that there was a different second-class citizen. People with dark skin were meant to be separate here. They lived in poorer places, went to schools that weren't as good, jobs the same. She remembered how American soldiers in Berlin would boast about their country as she served them drinks and performed little tricks for them in the smoky basement bars of the ruined city. They had always said words like 'freedom', 'opportunity' and 'happiness' when describing America. A place of equality for all and democracy.  
She finally replied, composed. "I'll think about it."

* * *

**Germany, 1945**

Flakes of snow rained down on her like huge freezing feathers as she galloped over the hills. She had been told to stay off the roads and she could only hope that she was going to get to Berlin soon although it had only been six hours since she left the village. The journey would take days.  
She could only peak though her snowy lashes as she rode through the dense forest of evergreen trees. Hunched over and frozen, she wore layer upon layer of clothes and blankets. She slowed down to a canter when she rode straight into a pine branches that hurt her face and eyes with their rough bark and pointy needles.  
The horse below her had been used to pulling carts and quivered underneath it's own blanket what slipped a little now and then underneath her. She hadn't even bothered with reins as Frau Himmler stuffed food and necessities in a bag during the early hours, constantly looking out in the direction the Russians where meant to be coming from despite the fact it was pitch black. An army could've been lined up thirty feet away and you would not see them through the blizzard that stormed the night sky.

A few hours of more trotting through trees, she did not know what time it was and if it was midday. Her eyes drooped with fatigue and exhaustion, even her breath didn't cloud the same. The snow fell more gentle now, the wind had died down. Looking out through her layers of hats and scarves that were wrapped over her face, she pulled on the mane gently as Nancy–the name she had given the horse despite Frau Himmler's disapproval–came to a stop. They were standing at the edge of a large frozen pond. Everything in the scene was covered in icing sugar snow that was piled on top of everything by a few inches.  
She slid off Nancy and regretted it instantly as the snow was much thicker than it had been in the think forest. A good few feet of snow buried her legs in ice as she stumbled over to clear some snow away so Nancy could eat some grass. Magda scooped the snow with gloved hands and then after the horse started to sniff a little at the ground, she walked to the edge of the pond, looking for a stream. She didn't know a lot about survival in the winter but she knew it was important to find water.

She squinted up at the blindingly bright sky, wondering what Berlin looked like and more importantly, wondering how long it would take in the snow.

* * *

**Well, that's that finished. So the next chapter is being baked. And it will feature that dickhead Erik Lehnsherr...(I kid! He's a...Byronic hero. Look it up.) Flawed heroes are the best anyhow. I mean, how many people prefer Mr. Bingley to Mr. She's-not-handsome-enough-to-tempt-_me_-Darcy? And in English Lit. classes all over the world we are still arguing over the hotness of Mr. Rochester and other gits who have got a bit of je nais se quoi whether you want to admit it or not...Sort of like how the character James Bond gets away with being a manipulative user and psychopath. I've based Erik on him a little...**

**ANYWAY. See ya. Ta for all the reviews and such. Each one is precious and nice. x**


	11. New York Bar, 1956

**1956**

The music pulsated through the air, beats and wails that conveyed anything from passion to deep sadness travelled through the Lucky Strike amber haze that covered the dancing and drinking crowd that congregated in the jazz club. She liked the place, watching everyone from the poor and clapping jazz musicians in their best clothes to the middle-class beatnik-types who tried their best to pretend they were as dirt-poor and carefree, dressed in carefully ripped sweaters. But despite her cynical observations, even she had to admit that the eclectic cocktail of faces and accents mingled in a way that could only be described as agreeable. In the club everyone could pretend for a while that everything was "cool, man!"

She sat in the back, the shadows concealed her as she watched the crowd laugh, dance and sway to the music. Her legs were crossed at the dark end of the crowded bar, wearing tight black trousers and a thin sweater that she had rolled up at the sleeves in a half-hearted attempt to stay somewhat cool. She observed the scene around her, detached from it like an artist watching their subject matter. Simultaneously she wanted to join in with the dancing and yet she liked being alone with her thoughts. She would've been alone in her room at that very moment if she had not been swayed by Doris to get out of her meagre apartment and her nose out of Allen Ginsberg's _Howl. _While she agreed with Doris that she _did_ need to get some air once in a while, she also knew it was because Doris wanted to keep an eye on her. She had been doing this for the last two weeks, making sure that Magda was nearby. Tonight in a few moments, Doris would take the stage and perform to a more appreciative audience who would watch her, spellbound.  
Magda took another drink of beer. It had been almost a decade since she took her first curious sip of the stuff and still she was not sure if she liked it. Even now after a long drink she would try not to make her face contort in a little distaste.

She looked up and watched as the band stopped for a break, leaning further back into the uncomfortable stool. The taste of German beer and ironically, the smell of American cigarettes brought her back to Berlin. The cigarettes were unlike the repugnant Russian brands, to ten-year-old Magda they smelt of freedom. They were traded on the thriving black market for almost anything. Even travel papers. She remembered it very well.  
Her foot began to tap on the bars of her stool as a starting beat began to coax her into movement. She was in no way tipsy, and never had been well and truly drunk in her life. But she had found that it was more socially acceptable to pretend to be a little intoxicated when dancing with the reckless abandon that she did. It was one of the things she took purest pleasure in. She would dance like she wanted to, free from the rules, hair free and loose. The so-called "Beatniks" would only gawk as she would suddenly become an exotic dancer, spinning and dancing like she was a Cuban in Havana. She would usually dance barefoot and the crowd would clap and cheer as she would dance with those who were as brave as herself.

* * *

She collapsed into her dancing partners arms, laughing as the music came to a stop. She had been dancing for about an hour and felt almost sick, she was so hot. Her dancing buddy patted her on the shoulder, half-way between congratulations and comfort as she attempted to breathe evenly. She mutely responded with a thumbs up as she was handed a drink and knocked it back. She glanced up at the stage for a moment to see Doris talking to the band, distracted as they figured out where a band member was or something. Her dance partner flashed her a huge white grin as they said their goodbyes as total strangers amicably before she cut through the dark crowd, desperate for somewhere dark, cool and hidden to recover. Her head spun as she sat down in an empty shoddily made booth. It was too early in the morning for anyone to be sitting down. Even the shyest and most cumbersome were on the floor or tables dancing_—_courtesy of some Dutch-courage.

She had caught her breath in a few minutes and was now watching with crowd around her with the usual detachment of an outsider. She was either the centre of attention or on the outside looking in. That was just how she was, really.  
The crowd had clamoured to the front as her friend sang in the dim light. She doubted if Marilyn herself could work the stage like Doris could.  
She scanned the crowd lazily and then did a double-take. A man sat alone in the smoke. She froze. His head was turned.

She immediately got up smoothly and slowly like someone with a gun pointed at them. Down the back of the room there was a curtain pulled across a doorway, a crack of light shining through it. A gambling den was the best place to hide from someone dangerous.  
Magda was no stranger to gambling. She guessed it started at around her teenage years in British occupied Berlin. She had been ready to get the first plane out of Berlin and a boat to America but it wasn't that easy. Many wanted to leave and you had to be smart if you wanted one of the precious seats. It was all about making friends with the kinds of people who could choose who made the list.

Magda had her wages in her pocket since she and Doris had both came to the bar straight after finishing work early, having been on the lunch shift. As a woman she already had an advantage over her male counterparts–she didn't let her ego intervene with her playing.

She parted the curtain a little, sliding in. It was late and probably most were drunk enough to play with a raccoon let alone a woman.  
There were three men gathered around a table that could fit five, one was hunched over with a head that shone under the light, the other two looked up wearily. The smell of cigar and alcohol gave the room a heavy smell as she sat down on a worn-out chair that was probably comfy once.  
The cigar smoker was first to speak, asking her name as he shuffled cards, starting a new game.  
She mumbled a reply.  
"Well, Maggie," The man that had misheard her name spoke with an Irish accent, "I hope you're not much of a player. I'm hoping tae come home with heavy pockets to the wife. It's hard when you have twelve little mouths to feed..."  
The other, a gruff looking man who had the memories of war written over his face, grunted in a way that substituted a laugh. "That's a pile of damn bullshit, Murphey."  
"Helluva tactic though." Magda was handed a glass of liquor as she spoke, instantly becoming one of the boys.  
The three watched the Irishman called Murphey shuffle and then reshuffle as they drank. He had just started distributing, playing dealer before looking up past Magda's head, in the direction of the door behind her.  
"Lookin' a game, aye?"  
Madga swallowed her drink painfully, forcing it down. At first she had thought it was a massive coincidence, now she knew that she was in full-blown danger. He was following her. It had been along time since she had been so afraid of someone.

He sat down at the round table, almost opposite her at the two O'clock position. Hatless, his shirt and braces were visible as his jacket was hung on the back of his seat. In this setting he looked less like a young millionaire and more like a gangster or professional criminal.  
He sat down, not looking or even glancing at her.  
She watched her cards, the distribution seem to take eternity as her mind raced in a vague panic.  
"Cigarette?" The bald man who had been silent reached into his jacket, pulling out a cigarette tin and lighter.  
"Yes." She replied, taking one and a lighter. Now it really did feel like she was a girl in Berlin again. As a small cloud of smoke escaped her mouth she blinked as the warm smoke rose towards the ceiling.  
She looked down at the hand she given, barely seeing the cards and looking again at the stranger. He had his cards in one hand and something that was probably a chip in the other. He was looking forwards with no particular expression.  
The game started and the pot opened. Magda threw a few bills onto the centre of the table, wondering if she should bolt or stay until Doris came for her. She shifted uncomfortably as she took another drag, thinking how long she could last until she ran out of money.

The game had gone on for about five minutes in silence before Murphey piped up. "We're gettin' a bit quiet here. Come an, we're meant to be having a joke or something!"  
"So we'll forget about playing a good hand?" The disgruntled American looked over at the Irish man who was grinning with a small cigar between his teeth.  
"Away outta that," He laughed with teeth barred. "Maggie, go on and tell us a yarn."  
Magda looked up from her cards.  
"Go ahn! I've had a lot of bad hands tonight. Give me a good sad story that'll make me feel better. I'm piss-poor, I work hours for nothin' and I haven't seen my wife in three years."  
Magda put her hand down, glad to postpone the game has she waited for Doris.

* * *

**Will soon add to this chapter and also a revision of story so far. I'm someone who likes to tell untold stories, I don't like to mess with plots and other things that have been clearly established...When it came to my attention the other day that Peter DOES have a twin sister in the X-Men-verse I was like "DANG." Any mention of Wanda the twin was cut out of the movie. So there's gonna be a slight re-write. I like to remain true to the story and characters so... watch and wait.  
Also I'm going to be editing it to it flows better and what-not. (Will be a while, I have a REAL graphic novel under way. God-willing.)**

**Peace out. x**


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